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THE  LUTE  AND  LA\ 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE   LUTE  AND   LAYS 


This  Edition 
printed  on 
handmade  paper 
will  be  numbered 
and  signed  by 
the  Author. 


BY 

CHARLES  STUART  WELLES,  M.D. 


A  loving  couple,  man  and  wife, 
Along  a  devious  pathway  plodding  ! 

Such  shall  thy  scutcheon  be,  ah  !    Life — 
Thought  I,  as  after  luncheon  nodding 
Under  the  hedge. 


LONDON:  GEORGE  BELL  &  SONS. 

NEW  YORK:    MACMILLAN   &  CO.  LTD. 
MDCCCXCIX. 


Copyrights  secured  in  England  and  the  United  States  of 
America. 


All  rights  reserved. 


DEDICATORY. 

TO    MY    NATIVE    COUNTRY 

THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 

WHERE    THESE    SONGS    WERE 

COMPOSED. 

NEW  England,  oh,  New  England, 
There  is  quiet  in  thy  hills  ; 
New  England,  oh,  New  England, 

There  is  music  in  thy  rills ; 
In  the  verdure  of  thy  valleys, 

In  the  rippling  of  thy  streams, 
There  is  rest  for  weary  pilgrims 
And  a  home  for  happy  dreams. 

New  England,  oh,  New  England, 
There  is  storm  among  thy  hills  ; 

New  England,  oh,  New  England, 
There  are  torrents  in  thy  rills  ; 


.  -  -   -       '   : 


And  a  voice  of  warning  surges 
From  thy  mountains  to  the  sea, 

But  its  echo  ever  rises 

In  a  single  murmur — Free  ! 

New  England,  oh,  New  England, 

From  thy  firm  and  rock-bound  shore, 
New  England,  oh,  New  England, 

Comes  a  loud  and  solemn  roar  ; 
'Tis  the  echo  of  thy  billows 

To  the  rock  upon  thy  coast — 
Like  the  bugle  blast  of  freedom 

As  she  marshals  up  her  host. 

New  England,  oh,  New  England, 

From  thy  cradle  of  the  land — 
New  England,  oh,  New  England, 

From  thy  strong  and  Pilgrim  band — 
There  are  freemen  calling  freemen  ; 

And  the  sound  of  Freedom's  blast 
Is  the  signal  for  her  soldiers, 

When  the  skies  are  overcast ! 

9,  ROLAND  GARDENS,  S.W. 
LONDON,  ENGLAND. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE  LUTE 3 

LILIAN 13 

AN  OLD  BOUQUET 15 

THE  STAR  OF  AN  EVENING 17 

LOVE  is  A  FAY           .     .           1 8 

THAT  LOVE   ENDURES    .......  20 

A  DESCRIPTION 21 

ROSES 23 

THE  WIFE 24 

WHEREFORE  I  SING 26 

THE  POET  AND  BEAUTY 29 

SERENADE  SONG 30 

A  STATUETTE 32 

LOVE'S  MESSAGERS 33 

LOVE  IN  DOUBT 34 

THE  SONNET 35 

THE  LILY  AND  THE  VIOLETS 36 

THE  TIDE  OF  LOVE 37 

THE  BLOSSOM        38 

CHRISTINE 39 

THE  LOVE  STAR        40 

THE  FLOWER  OF  FRIENDSHIP 43 

AT  ODDS  WITH  LOVE 44 

CONTENT 45 

THE  LILY  OF  THE  VALLEY 46 

AT  THE  TRYSTING-PLACE •  .  47 

GOLDEN  DAYS 49 

THE  FIRE-FLY 50 

HEARTS-EASE 51 

SONG  OF  SPRING 52 


THE  SUMMER-TIME 54 

ROSE  RE-CROWNED 56 

THE  GREETING 57 

VIOLET 58 

THE  COURT  OF  POSIES 59 

LOVE'S  CONFESSION 61 

A  VALENTINE 62 

IN  MEMORIAM 65 

EVENING       , 67 

BORN  TO  THE  PURPLE 68 

THE  RAIN        69 

A  WOUNDED  SPIRIT  WHO  CAN  BEAR      .     .  70 

A  THOUGHT 72 

GRANT 73 

LAUS  SALUTIS 74 

A  BEAUTIFUL  MORNING 75 

OCTOBER 76 

VALE  MEA 78 

REVERIE 79 

THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  ROSE 81 

THE  BOOK  OF  LIFE 83 

QUEEN  LEILA 86 

THE  CLOUD 88 

A  SUMMER  SONG 90 

BOHEMIA 92 

SINE  QUA  NON 94 

UTOPIA 95 

REPOSE 96 

DESIRE 97 

ACCOMPLISHMENT 98 

TWILIGHT 99 

ADIEU,  CHARMANT  PAYS 102 


THE   LUTE. 


.     .     .     jj  roi  KwTrptc  oi  Kvirpic  povov, 
aXX  tori  iroXXwv  ovofiaruv  tTrtiw/iOf. 
tffrtv  fiiv  "AtSrjf,  IffTi  f  a<j>QiTOC  Bi'a. 

SOPHOCLES. 


THE  LUTE. 

I  SING  of  beauty,  though  this  lute 
Unto  a  mournful  strain  was  cast 
By  him  who  played  upon  it  last, 
Who  seemed  of  gladness  destitute. 

Great  love  of  beauty  fills  my  soul 
With  voices  struggling  to  be  free 
And  breathe,  in  tuneful  ecstasy, 

The  wondrous  love  my  songs  extol. 

Not  song  nor  strain  that  ear  has  heard 
Another  to  his  mate  impart ; 
But  melodies  which  fill  my  heart, 

As  warbles  each  untutored  bird. 

I  sing  of  beauty  as  the  birds 
Awake  in  gladness  and  rejoice 
That  God  hath  given  each  a  voice 

To  sing  their  joy,  though  not  in  words. 

I  sing  a  heart-felt  happiness — 

The  glad  contentment  of  the  soul 
When  joy  breaks  forth  beyond  control 

And  utters  more  than  words  express. 
3 


II. 

How  shall  I  then  my  gladness  hide, 
As  down  the  drift  of  life  I  roam  ? 
All  nature  is  my  boundless  home, 

And  love  my  only  perfeft  guide. 

For  in  love's  light  my  song  takes  wing ; 
Her  star  pervades  my  universe, 
And  all  my  rhapsodies  are  hers — 

It  is  her  beauty  that  I  sing. 

Her  light  illumes  my  destined  way, 
And  ever  points  my  course  aright ; 
Hers  is  the  brilliance  of  my  night, 

She  is  the  magnet  of  my  day. 

For  ere  she  came  my  sky  was  dark — 

What  though  the  day  was  sometimes  fair, 
As  often  starless  night  was  there 

Which  held  no  compass  to  my  bark  ; 

And  clouded  night  hung  low  above 
And  filled  my  heart  with  lonely  fear, 
Until  I  felt  her  presence  near, 

And  recognized  my  star  of  love. 
4 


III. 

The  cloud  that  filled  my  night  was  doubt; 

The  night  of  doubt  was  black  with  me  ; 

There  was  no  dawning,  seemingly, 
Until  her  star  came  shyly  out — 

Came  out  between  the  shades  that  fell 
Athwart  my  pathway,  blindly  trod  ; 
Came  like  a  gleam  of  joy  from  God, 

To  be  about  me  like  a  spell. 

My  doubt  was  not  a  doubt  of  love, 
Nor  doubt  of  goodness  undefined, 
Nor  disbelief  in  human  kind, 

Nor  doubt  of  Him  who  rules  above. 

It  was  the  doubt  of  self  which  hung 

Before  me  like  a  misty  veil  ; 

To  me  appeared  no  Holy  Grail  ; 
There  was  no  guide  to  which  I  clung. 

I  wandered  lonely,  blindly  led, 
As  one  may  wander  in  a  dream, 
While  knowing  there  is  no  supreme 

And  living  way  thereon  to  tread. 

5 


ir. 

I  savr  the  day  benignly  fair 

When  outward  life  before  me  spread 

Its  beauty  like  a  posy  bed  ; 
But  then  the  inward  doubt  was  there. 

I  found  the  earth  a  garden  glad 

With  happy  themes  inviting  song, — 
I  sang  sometimes  the  whole  day  long  ; 

But  evening  fell,  and  love  was  sad. 

Life  held  no  fixed  beacon  light, 
Refle&ing  joy  from  day  to  day  ; 
I  felt  there  was  no  kindly  ray 

To  break  the  darkness  of  my  night 

Until  that  time  when  beauty  beamed 
Upon  me  with  her  smile  serene, 
And  bade  me  recognize  my  queen  ; 

When  night  with  radiant  glory  teemed. 

The  day  and  night  one  joy  became  ; 
My  song  no  longer  sank  in  doubt, 
But  day  or  night  rang  boldly  out 

And  sang  all  joy  in  beauty's  name. 
6 


V. 

O  lute  !  wilt  guide  my  voice  to  tell 

The  wondrous  spell  which  round  her  weaves, 
What  rapturous  joy  my  bosom  heaves 

To  sing  the  love  I  love  so  well  ? 

The  love  that  grew  to  mate  with  mine, 
The  perfect  flower  upon  the  tree, 
The  one,  fair  blossom,  blown  for  me 

By  law  of  earth  and  love  divine. 

Whose  life  unfolded  as  a  flower, 
But  in  whose  bosom  grew  the  seed 
Of  love  immortal  ;  for  what  heed 

Of  bloom  that  fadeth  in  the  hour  ! 

Whose  life  began  in  blush  of  spring 
What  time  the  love-star  shone  at  night, 
Pervading  earth  with  fadeless  light, 

That  lives  in  her  whose  love  I  sing. 

Who  taught  me  this  result  of  love  : 
That  in  its  knowledge  is  content — 
The  sweet,  surpassing  complement 

Whereto  the  lives  of  mortals  move. 

7 


Fond  lute,  we  are  no  longer  young ; 
But  worship  is  not  therefore  less, 
Than  it  were  still  our  happiness 

To  sing  the  joys  our  youth  has  sung. 

But  rather  more,  that  now  we  know 
That  passion  does  not  measure  love  ; 
For  love  is  light  from  God  above, 

And  passion  but  a  voice  below. 

So,  while  I  may  not  bid  thee  wake 
To  throbbing  joy  nor  quivering  pain, 
The  mellower  be  thy  tuneful  strain 

Which  times  a  song  for  beauty's  sake. 

Sing,  lute,  the  harmony  of  peace, 

Whose  stately  music  brings  sweet  sense 
Of  sorrow-soothing  recompense 

That  youth's  impassioned  discords  cease. 

Sing,  lute,  the  wondrous  peace  of  night, 
Where  night  no  longer  shadows  day, 
But  merges  in  the  broader  way 

Beyond  the  small  eclipse  of  light. 
8 


Come  sing,  my  lute,  the  gladsome  song 
Of  starry  night  beyond  the  cloud, 
Where  souls  on  souls  immortal  crowd 

To  join  fair  God's  angelic  throng. 

Sing  joyful  songs  the  angels  sing, 
Whose  one  ecstatic  sense  is  light, 
Who  from  their  love-entranced  height 

Look  down  on  earth's  minutest  thing. 

Sing  heavenly  peace  that  lendeth  light 
Unto  the  wanderer  here  below, 
To  pierce  the  clouds  of  doubt  and  woe 

That  make  the  darkness  of  his  night. 

Reveal  to  him  who  walks  the  way 
Of  selfish  solitude  and  doubt, 
Thy  light  to  lure  the  wanderer  out 

Unto  the  sense  of  broader  day. 

That  thus  he  may  ascend  to  see 

The  constant  joy  of  heavenly  things, 
When  love  descends  on  angel  wings 

To  greet  his  soul  in  ecstasy. 
9 


"  And  she,  with  lips  to  which  belong 

Sweet  intuitions  of  all  art, 
Gave  to  the  winds  of  night  a  strain 
Which  they  who  heard  would  hear  again." 
WHITTIIR. 


LILIAN. 


"  In  wunderschonen  Monat  Mai, 
Al$  alle  Vbgel  sangen, 
Da  hab'  ich  ihr  gestanden 
Mein  Sehnen  und  Verlangen." 

HEINZ. 


LILIAN. 

OH,  say  not  love  is  lost,  that  lives 
Still  in  our  dreams  of  other  years  ; 
Love  is  not  dead,  while  memory  gives 
Us  back  again  its  smiles  and  tears ! 

Love  led  me  back  last  night,  entranced, 
Like  one  whom  diverse  fates  beguile  ; 

I  know  not  how  it  was  I  chanced 

To  dream  so  many  dreams  the  while. 

I  dreamed  of  my  first  love  the  last, 
Strange  as  the  course  of  love  appears, 

And  my  last  love  was  fainter  cast 
Upon  that  transit  of  the  years  ; 

Till  this,  this  only,  stands  to  me, 

From  all  the  night's  weird,  wandering  way, 
The  dream  of  my  first  love  I  see 

Yet  brighter  in  the  wakeful  day. 
'3 


So,  say  not  love  is  lost,  that  lives 
E'en  as  a  dream  of  other  years ; 

Love  is  not  dead,  while  memory  gives 
Us  back  again  its  smiles  and  tears. 

I  see  fair  Lilian  as  she  came 

Across  my  spring-time  long  ago, 

Just  as  a  floweret  gleams  aflame 
Soon  after  dreary  fields  of  snow  ; 

Just  as,  since  that  delightful  spring, 
When  now  I  tread  some  wintry  plain, 

Close  after  each  tired  wandering 
I  see  her  gleaming  there  again. 

Bright  beaming,  tair  as  any  flower 
Perennial  in  its  bloom  of  May, 

She  comes  ! — say  in  some  quiet  hour 
May  I  not  steal  her  thence  away  ? 

Yea !  say  not  love  is  lost,  that  lives 
Still  in  our  dreams  of  other  years — 

Love  is  not  dead,  while  memory  gives 
Us  back  again  its  smiles  and  tears. 


AN   OLD   BOUQUET. 

THOUGH  the  flowers  wither,  love, 
Other  flowers  as  fair 
Grow  upon  the  heather,  love, 

To  adorn  thy  hair ; 
To  adorn  thy  bosom,  love, 

Than  whose  tender  blush 
Never  flower  yet  hath  blown 
With  a  daintier  flush  ! 


Though  the  flowers  wither,  love, 

When  their  scent  has  died, 
We  will  gather  fresher  flowers 

To  adorn  thy  pride  ; 
But  when  chilling  winter,  love, 

Summer  flowers  shall  doom, 
Thou  shalt  bloom  yet  daintily — 

For  thy  lover  bloom  ! 

'5 


Though  the  flowers  wither,  love, 

Listlessly  depart, 
Thou  shah  bloom,  thyself  a  flower, 

Fragrant  as  thou  art ; 
Blushing  as  a  fresh  rose,  love, 

In  the  morning  light, 
Pure  as  waxen  cereus 

Blossoming  at  night ! 

Though  the  flowers  wither,  love, 

Budding  hopes  arise, 
Whispering  that  a  Spring  of  Love 

Shall  delight  thine  eyes — 
Bend  thy  fond  eyes  nearer,  then, 

With  thy  gentle  art, 
And  rare  flowers  of  love  shall  bloom 

For  thee  in  my  heart ! 


16 


THE   STAR   OF  AN   EVENING. 

SO  gently  fell  her  words 
Upon  my  charmed  ear, 
'Twas  like  a  song  of  birds 
Unconsciously  we  hear. 

So  calmly  fell  her  gaze 
Upon  my  wondering  eyes, 

'Twas  like  a  dewy  haze 

That  drapes  the  deeper  skies. 

So  lightly  fell  her  hand 

Upon  my  open  palm, 
'Twas  like  a  fairy  wand 

Dispensing  heavenly  balm. 

So  softly  fell  her  sigh 
Upon  my  tender  heart, 

Twas  like  a  last  good-bye 
When  truest  lovers  part. 

So  nearly,  yet  afar, 

Upon  my  night  she  shone, 
'Twas  like  a  falling  star 

That  cleaves  the  dark  alone. 
'7 


LOVE  IS  A  FAY. 

LOVE  is  a  fairy,  child  !  Love  was  a  star ; 
In  heaven's  bright  Eden  this  star  was  a  twin, 
And  stars  are  fairies  ; — roaming  afar, 

Love  strayed  unto  Earth  and  was  welcomed  in. 

Love  is  a  Fay  who  thus  chanced  upon  Earth, 
Forgetting  his  way  in  the  boundless  blue  ; 

His  soul-lit  glances  speak  his  birth, 

As,  eager,  he  wanders  the  wide  world  through. 

Wanders  forever,  yet  may  not  find 
That  other  love  which  was  all  to  him, 

That  other  Fay  whom  he  left  behind, 
Yet  is  ever  before  him  in  distance  dim. 

Searching  he  looks,  with  his  heavenly  art, 
In  each  maiden's  eyes,  till  a  luminous  light 

Illumines  their  lives,  and  each  tender  heart 
Glows  ever  true,  like  a  star  of  night. 
18 


Ever  he  wanders,  and  never  grows  old  ; 

And  never  a  maiden  escapes  a  day 
When,  however  disguised,  his  glances  bold 

Shall  change  her  into  a  loving  Fay. 

Happy  the  maiden  who  learns  to  know 
When  the  Fay  is  disguised  in  a  true  lover's 
breast, 

And  happy  the  hero  whose  loving  eyes  glow 
With  the  luminous  light  of  a  Fay  possessed 


THAT   LOVE   ENDURES. 

RONDEAU. 

THAT  love  endures,  O  heart,  we  know ; 
For  have  we  not  through  all  the  years, 
Through  days  of  grief, — aye,  unto  tears, 
Which  sometimes  spite  of  protest  flow, — 
Made  peace  with  love  to  break  with  woe  ? 

Yet  stay,  O  heart,  hast  thou  no  fears 
For  love  that  only  grief  endears  ; 
Hast  thou  no  fonder  proof  to  show 
That  love  endures  ? 

Yea  !  joy  that  thrills  love's  eager  ears 
Till,  over-gladdened,  grief  appears 
Access  of  joy, — by  this  we  know 
That  love  endures ! 


20 


A  DESCRIPTION. 

MY  Love  shall  be  a  Lady  born 
Who  would  in  full  possess  my  heart, 
And  she'll  my  love  with  love  adorn, 
And  love  me  wholly,  not  in  part ; 
For  we  might  sorry,  sorry  be, 
If  less  love  fell  to  her  and  me. 

My  Love  shall  own  a  form  of  grace, 

That  grace  Love-Artist  pines  to  win — 
The  animated  form  and  face 

That  breathes  of  heart  and  soul  within. 
So  shall  my  own  Love  truly  be 
A  goddess  which  enchanteth  me. 

My  Love  shall  mass  her  wealth  of  hair 
O'er  fairest  brow  and  glowing  cheek 
Fresh  tinted  by  the  woodland  air, 
With  blushes  playing  hide  and  seek  ; 
And  these  rare  charms  shall  surely  be 
Sweet  bonds  endearing  her  to  me. 

21 


My  Love  shall  look  from  deep,  deep  eyes — 

Wide,  open  orbs,  with  drooping  lash ; 
Her  loving  glances  meet  replies 

Shall  send  me,  gleaming  flash  for  flash. 
Sweet,  sweet  communings  these  shall  be 
Unto  my  Lady-love  and  me. 

My  Love  two  ruby  lips  shall  own, 

As  ruby-red  as  red  can  be ; 
Their  nedlar,  sipped  by  me  alone, 
Shall  prove  the  love  she  bears  for  me. 
Her  lips  the  seal  of  love  shall  be 
To  bind  her  evermore  to  me. 

My  Love  shall  own  all  these  beside : 

White,  glistening  teeth,  a  taper  chin, 
A  brow,  without,  both  full  and  wide, 
A  cultivated  mind  within  ; — 
Sweet  Paragon  of  Love,  ah  me ! 
May  I  not  prove  unworthy  thee! 


22 


ROSES. 

NO  garland  but  roses  my  darling  shall  wear  ! 
Roses  and  roses  and  roses  rare — 
Roses  of  white  in  her  raven  hair  ; 
Roses  of  red  on  her  bosom  fair  ; 
Roses  and  roses  and  roses  rare — 
My  darling 's  a  rose,  and  the  posies  declare 
That  roses  can  only  with  roses  compare  ; 
So  no  wreath  but  roses  my  darling  shall  wear. 


THE  WIFE. 

M  Un  jour  tu  sentiras,  peut-etre, 

Le  prix  d'un  coeur  qui  nous  comprend  ; 

Le  bien  qu'on  trouve  a  le  connaitre, 
Ou  ce  qu'on  souffre  en  le  perdant." 

DE  MUSSET. 

LO,  the  touch  of  velvet  fingers, 
And  the  music  of  her  breast, 
Beating  full,  majestic  measures, 
Soothe  my  weary  soul  to  rest ! 

Hush  !  the  din  of  busy  traffic, 
With  its  restless,  daily  round, 

Making  life  a  thing  of  barter, 
And  the  mart  a  prison  ground. 

Hush  !  the  wrong  of  spent  endeavour, 
With  its  lost  result  of  toil — 

Honest  toil,  deserving  better 
Than  becoming  common  spoil. 
•4 


Hush  !  the  fear  of  death,  denying 
That  success  which  might  atone 

For  the  thought  of  her  forsaken, 
In  a  cruel  world  alone. 

Hush  !  the  whole  day's  tired  effort, 
With  its  over-burdening  strain  ; 

There  is  strength  in  her  affection 
For  another  day  again. 

For  her  touch  of  velvet  fingers, 
And  the  music  of  her  breast, 

Beating  full,  majestic  measures, 
Soothe  my  weary  soul  to  rest. 


WHEREFORE   I  SING. 

WHEREFORE  I  sing?    Ah,  sweetest  friend, 
How  can  I  reason  with  thee  wrong — 
I  think  it  must  be  thou  dost  lend 
Thy  tuneful  echo  to  my  song ! 
One  says  that  where  there  is  no  ear 
There  is  nor  song  nor  sound  to  hear. 

So,  if  I  sing,  and  if  there  may 

Some  melody  or  music  be, 
Be  sure  it  is  a  heart-felt  lay — 

My  song,  that  struggles  unto  thee ; 
And  while  thou  lendest  me  thine  ear, 
I  *ing,  sweet  one,  that  thou  mayst  hear. 


26 


LOVE'S  GARDEN. 


"  I  enter  thy  Garden  of  Roses." 

BYRON. 


THE   POET  AND   BEAUTY. 

QHOULD  Beauty  lift  her  eyes  to  thine 
K_y     And  whisper :  Poet,  sing,  I  pray, 
A  little  song  which  shall  be  mine, — 

Then  couldst  thou  say  her  nay? 
Ah,  were  it  not  a  joy  to  trace 

Each  charming  feature  of  her  face  ! 

Yet  when  to  Beauty's  lustrous  eyes 
Your  studied  verses  you  may  bring, 

How  bear  that  she  should  criticize,— 
How  dare  attempt  to  sing ! 

Nay,  Poet !  thence  'twere  only  mett 
To  sue  for  grace  at  Beauty's  feet. 


SERENADE   SONG. 

HOW  softly  sounds  my  sweet  guitar 
As  o'er  the  silvery  lake  I  glide 
Beneath  the  favourite,  love-lit  star 

Of  summer-time  and  evening-tide  ! 
How  clear  the  night,  how  cool  the  air, 

No  lowering  clouds  this  evening  mar  ; 
Thou  moon  how  bright,  and  oh,  how  fair- 
How  softly  sounds  my  sweet  guitar  ! 

Chorus. 

My  sweet  guitar !  my  sweet  guitar ! 
How  softly  sounds  my  sweet  guitar ! 

My  slight  canoe  is  wafted  far 

Before  the  gentle,  summer  breeze ; 

Along  the  shore  my  sweet  guitar 
Awakes  an  echo  'mid  the  trees — 

Faint  echoes,  answering  to  my  soul 
As  sweet  as  angels'  voices  are, 
30 


Or  sweetest  strains  of  oriole — 
Awake !  fond  soul  of  my  guitar ! 

Chorus. 

My  sweet  guitar !  my  sweet  guitar ! 
Awake,  fond  soul  of  my  guitar  ! 

Oh  thou,  whose  echoing  tones  rejoice 
My  spirit,  worshipping  afar, 

To  thee  I  lift  my  trembling  voice, 
For  thee  I  tune  my  sweet  guitar ! 

For  thee,  sweet  love,  my  waiting  boat 
Drifts  idly  'neath  love's  guiding  star ; 

Sweet  love,  breathe  low  each  answering  note- 
Breathe  softest  tones,  my  sweet  guitar ! 

Chorus. 

My  sweet  guitar  !  my  sweet  guitar  ! 
Breathe  softest  tones,  my  sweet  guitar ! 


A  STATUETTE. 

WORN  and  downcast,  sorrow-laden, 
Lonely  in  a  foreign  land, 
Found  I  this  pale,  love-lorn  maiden 

Prostrate  in  the  desert  sand. 
Why  this  lingering  fate,  we  wonder ; 
Doth  this  live  that  man  may  know 
Love  was  even  crushed  asunder 
In  those  ages  long  ago  ? 

Yet  though  crushed  and  long  forsaken, 

Love  is  fair  as  purest  snow, 
And  its  firm  heart  lives,  unshaken 

By  the  rude  weight  of  its  woe ; 
For,  though  weary  and  neglefted, 

Love  hath  lines  thou  know'st  not  of: 
Hast  ne'er  found  thine  own  deje&ed, 

Waiting  statuette  of  Love ! 


LOVE'S   MESSAGERS. 

"  The  rose  of  Sharon  and  the  lily  of  the  valleys." 

FLOWERS  that  to  your  Queen  I  send, 
Lilies,  Roses,  all  attend  ! 
Once  she  seemed  as  true  to  me 
As  the  mead  is  to  the  May  ; 
Do  you  think  that  it  can  be 
She  has  wandered  far  away  ? 

Flowers,  fate  is  in  your  hands, 
Hearken  unto  love's  commands  ; 
Find  her,  though  the  way  be  long, 

And,  if  she  be  faithful  still, 
Tell  her  that  her  Knight  of  Song 

Kneels  to  her  and  waits  her  will ! 


33 


LOVE  IN  DOUBT. 

I  WONDER  if  my  darling  knows 
How  all  my  being  yearns  for  her, 
And  if  'twere  madness  to  suppose 

That  she  could  hold  me  worthier 
Than  others  were  ;  but  why  not  I  ? 

Have  I  not  seen  her  temples  flush, 
Her  trembling  lips  express  a  sigh, 

As  if  for  me  her  sigh  or  blush  ? 
Ah,  might  I  hope  it  was  for  me, 

Or  that  she  guessed  my  love  for  her, 
How  might  I  not  yet  rise  to  be 

Her  hero,  though  her  worshipper — 
Fulfilling  more  than  fancy  can 

Have  painted  her  the  love  of  man  ! 


34 


THE   SONNET. 

BEHOLD  this  statue  of  a  woman,  wrought 
From  fleckless  marble,  a  rude  mass  of  stone  ! 
It  lives  not  only  in  its  form  alone, 
But  in  its  posture  is  the  sculptured  thought. 
Within  its  contour  has  the  sculptor  brought 

Both  life  and  order,  though  the  clay  had  none ; 
And  so  from  chaos  of  mere  words  is  grown 
The  soulful  sonnet  from  the  realms  of  naught. 
The  dream  of  beauty  which  the  sculptor  saw 
Was  not  more  perfeft  than  the  poet  knew, 
Nor  lives  more  truly  in  its  spotless  form, 
Than  that  sweet  creature  of  poetic  law 
The  poet  models  into  semblance  true, 
Or  wakes  created  into  being  warm. 


35 


THE   LILY   AND   THE  VIOLETS. 

A    FABLE. 

A  LILY  bloomed  in  a  gardener's  bed 
Of  Hearts-ease  and  sweet  Violets  shy, 
And  nodded  her  queenly  and  graceful  head 
In  arch  conceit  to  the  passers-by. 

And  one  reached  over,  who  longed  to  clasp 
This  fair,  white  Lily,  which  bowed  away 

Her  supple  bosom  beyond  his  grasp 
In  fickle  breezes  which  blew  that  day. 

Ah  !  the  free  winds  of  destiny  freshen  at  will, 
And  the  stranger,  aweary,  went  humming  a  song ; 

And  the  breezes  kept  blowing  and  blowing,  until 
The  pale  Lily  wearied  with  bowing  so  long. 

Then  the  shy,  modest  Violets  whispered  together  : 
Tis  nice,  being  little  ;  for  no  one  may  blame 

U«  with  flirting,  and  all  the  wild  weather 

Which  blows  by  shall  leave  us  forever  the  same. 
36 


THE   TIDE   OF  LOVE. 

NAY  !  ask  not  if  Love  is  content 
With  some  few  strains  of  simple  song  ; 
Nor  question,  still,  the  right  or  wrong 
Of  Love's  short  dream  of  wonderment. 

For  oh,  life  seems  so  swift  a  dream, 

That  though  we  strive  each  change  to  note, 
Our  drift  glides  on,  as  speeds  a  boat 

Adown  an  aimless,  tideless  stream  ; 

And  though  we  turn  our  straining  eyes 
To  fix  some  fond  or  certain  thing, 
We  are  borne  on  and  cannot  sing 

The  tithe  of  songs  that  thence  arise. 

Nor  think  that  Love  is  discontent, 
Which  finds  rare  form  in  stated  song, 
We  will  not  question  right  or  wrong 

In  Love's  short  dream  of  wonderment. 

But  only  when  by  night,  by  day, 

Love's  sweet  re-echoing  strain  awakes, 
Love's  morning  light  in  heaven  breaks, 

Then  sing  Love's  tuneful  roundelay  ! 
37 


THE   BLOSSOM. 

AN    ALLEGORY. 

THERE  are  fruits  which  wither  upon  the  stem — 
And   these    are   maidens,   whose   love    is 

strong, 

And  pure,  and  loyal ;  who  suffer  so  long 
For  their  faith  in  men,  that  they  die  for  them. 

There  are  fruits  which  mellow  to  rot  again — 
And  these  are  harlots,  whom  fateful  gales 
Have  tempest-tossed,  till  resistance  fails 

And  they  fall  in  the  wiling  of  pitiless  men. 

There  are  fruits  which  ripen  in  harvest-time — 
And  these  are  women,  whose  budding  flower 
Doth  bloom  to  full  being  in  love's  own  bower, 

To  be  culled  in  the  might  of  a  lover's  prime. 


Oh !  these  flowers  e'en  may  wither  in  long  despair, 
Or,  ruthlessly  shaken,  prostrate  them  there  ; 
But  the  blossom  which  buddeth,  ripe  fruit  to  bear, 
This,  this  were  a  flower  to  watch,  and  wear. 
38 


CHRISTINE. 

THY  love  I  may  not  win, 
Thy  heart  thou  canst  not  give  ; 
Yet  in  thy  smile  I  live, 
Christine ! 

Smile  on  me,  then,  my  queen— 
Thy  smile  thou  mayst  bestow, 
Ere  from  thy  side  I  go, 
Christine  ! 

Ere  lone  I  go,  Christine, 
Far,  far  away  from  thee, 
Smile  yet  again  on  me, 
Christine ! 

Ah !  thou  art  fond,  I  ween, 
Of  one  who  may  no  more 
Thy  very  smile  adore, 
Christine  ! 


39 


THE  LOVE   STAR. 

IN  the  golden,  summer  evening,  when  the  birds 
among  the  trees 
Sang  their  joyous,  twilight  carol  in  the  coming 

of  the  moon, 
We  were  happier  than  song-birds,  happier  than 

these, 

As  we  wandered  by  the  brooklet  in  that  mellow 
month  of  June. 

Oh,  the  happy,  happy  summer-time,  when  day 

was  long  and  bright, 
And  the  merry,  merry  birds  sang  their  songs  until 

the  night, 
We  were  merrier  than  song-birds,  singing  of  the 

moon, 
As  we  wandered  by  the  brooklet  in  that  mellow 

month  of  June! 

Chorus. 
Happy!  happy!  happier  than  song-birds  singing 

of  the  moon, 

As  we  wandered  by  the  brooklet  in  that  mellow 
month  of  June  ! 

40 


II. 
For  that  golden,  summer  evening  in  our  sky  was 

rising,  too, 
Like  a  mellow,  mellow  meteor  out-rivalling  the 

moon, 
One   bright,  glowing,  glowing  love-star,  shining 

ever  true, 

As  we  turned  our  faces  loveward  in  that  mellow 
month  of  June. 

Oh,  the  happy,  happy  summer-time,  when  night 

was  still  and  fair, 
And   the  brilliant,  brilliant  moon-beams  danced 

upon  the  air, 
We    were  merrier  than  moon-beams — fairies   of 

the  moon, 
As  we  turned  our  faces  loveward  in  that  mellow 

month  of  June  ! 

Chorus. 

Happy!  happy!  happier  than  moon-beams — fairies 

of  the  moon, 
As  we  turned  our  faces  loveward  in  that  mellow 

month  of  June ! 

41 


III. 

And  that  golden,  summer  evening,  though   the 

moonlight  passed  away, 

There  was  still  no  lack  of  splendour  in  the  ab 
sence  of  the  moon, 
For  our  star  of  love  still  lingered,  in  the  dawning 

of  the  day, 

As  we  woke  unto  the  morning  in  that  mellow 
month  of  June. 

Oh,  the  happy,  happy  summer  time,  when  night 

or  day  were  one, 
And  our  glowing,  glowing  love-star  overwhelmed 

the  sun, 
We  were  merrier  than  sun-beams,  mocking  at  the 

moon, 
As  we  woke  unto  the  morning  in  that  mellow 

month  of  June  ! 

Chorus. 

Happy  !  happy  !  happier  than  sun-beams,  mocking 

at  the  moon, 
As  we  woke   unto  the   morning  in  that  mellow 

month  of  June  ! 

42 


THE   FLOWER   OF  FRIENDSHIP. 


LOWERS,  blooming  in  a  day, 
JL       Pale  ere  night  in  mild  decay  ; 
But  there  is  a  sturdy  flower 
Which  blooms  long  —  yet  in  the  hour 
Fades,  to  mock  whose  wanton  knife 
Plucks  it  from  its  fruitful  life. 
Friendship  is  a  flower  to  prize  ; 
For  if  broken,  it  soon  dies. 


43 


AT  ODDS  WITH   LOVE. 

AT  odds  with  love  I  should  despair 
Of  some  sweet  compass  for  my  song, 
Yet  in  misfortune  still  forbear 

To  grieve,  or  deem  my  voice  less  strong, 
That  love  should  stoop  to  wreak  me  wrong. 

For,  though  we  may  not  war  with  love, 
Whose  hand  is  on  the  human  heart, 

How  might  I  not  in  pleasance  rove 
Amid  my  solitude  of  art, 
E'en  though  love  held  me  there  apart  ? 

Aye  !  there  might  I  such  solace  sing 

That,  surely,  some  lorn,  pitying  fay 

Would  bear  my  song  to  her  and  bring 
Her  answer  back,  and  thus  essay 
To  outwit  love — as  yet  we  may. 

But,  oh,  sweetheart,  whose  plaint  I  hear 
Come  floating  forth  from  alien  skies, 

Unto  thy  counterpart  draw  near 

Ere  love,  who  walks  with  blinded  eyes, 
May  lead  us  far  from  paradise  ! 
44 


CONTENT. 

HADST  never  thou,  dear  friend,  an  earnest 
faith 

That  some  long  loved  ideal  should  prove  true  ? 
Sometimes  my  soul  longs  for  some  nameless  thing 
Until  I  think  it  even  must  be  real  ; 
For  my  heart  faints  beneath  its  wild  desire. 
But  then  I  say  unto  my  fainting  heart: 
Thou  hast  not  lived  this  other,  wondrous  dream 
Life  holds  for  thee.     Look  up,  courageous  soul, 
It  is  too  soon  to  die  of  heart-ache,  child ! 
And  then  I  look,  to  rest  my  tired  eyes, 
Upon  this  nearer  world  of  loveliness — 
When  lo !  e'en  as  they  drooped  'mid  other  scenes 
Do  they  forget  them,  in  these  joys  ;  and  rise 
To  idolize  a  worthier  counterpart, 
Which  yields  yet  fondly  back,  with  lingering  look 
From  loving  eyes  to  loving  eyes,  more  love 
To  feast  upon,  until — Love  is  content. 


45 


THE  LILY   OF  THE   VALLEY. 

"  Ainsi  qu'on  choisit  une  rose 
Dans  les  guirlandes  de  Sarons, 

Choisissez  une  vierge  eclose, 
Parmi  les  lis  de  vos  vallons." 

LAMARTINE. 

SHE  is  not  vain,  this  dainty  flower, 
But  bends  her  pliant  form 
To  meet  the  motive  of  the  hour, 

And  welcomes  sun  or  storm  ; 
For  when  there  comes  a  cloud  of  rain 

She  fills  her  cups  with  dew, 

And  when  the  warm  day  comes  again 

She  serves  some  up  to  you. 


46 


AT  THE  TRYSTING-PLACE. 

NOT  for  a  price  I  sing, 
Nor  yet  to  fleeting  fame, 
Only  for  thee  I  form — 
For  thee  I  need  not  name — 
Such  joy  a  song  may  bring 

To  thy  heart,  pulsing  warm  ! 

Unto  thy  gentle  voice 
I  modulate  this  song — 

Unto  thee  only  might 
My  heart  its  theme  prolong, 
In  sounds  of  sweetest  choice, 
To  win  back  wild  delight ! 

Under  our  Tryst  I  pine, 
Sweet  love,  and  sing  to  thee 

In  lone  and  quiet  mood. 
So  sing,  my  love,  to  me — 
Sing  only  song  of  mine 

In  thy  heart's  solitude  ! 
47 


Sing  thou  to  me  alone — 
In  solitude  compose, 

Sweet  love,  thy  tuneful  voice — 
Only  thy  fond  heart  knows 
Measures  that  mine  hath  known, 
Who  bids  thy  love  rejoice  ! 

So  breathe  back  to  my  heart 
Music  to  measure  mine — 

Thou,  whom  my  soul  reveres  ! 
Lonely  for  thee  I  pine  ; 
Only  thy  matchless  art 

Can  charm  away  my  fears  ! 


48 


GOLDEN  DAYS. 

THE  golden  grain  now  droops  its  head ; 
The  pink  of  age  has  tipped  the  clover  ; 
The  harvest  days  are  ripe  and  red 
And  all  the  youth  of  spring  is  over. 

The  summer  sun  and  summer  showers 
Now  fill  the  land  and  sky  with  glory, 

Just  as  sweet  Lilian,  decked  with  flowers, 
Doth  bloom  to  grace  my  simple  story. 

She  comes  like  summer,  clad  in  gold, 
With  beaming  eyes  and  raven  tresses, 

Queen  of  my  song — the  story  old 
Of  love  and  all  that  love  expresses. 


49 


THE   FIRE-FLY. 

AN    ALLEGORY. 

WHY  should  she  delve  when  all  her  wants 
Are  bounteously  supplied, 
Or  lowly  lodge  when  heaven  grants 

Her  scope  in  regions  wide  ? 
What  though  she  wings  her  flight  afar, 
She  is  no  cold  and  distant  star. 

Nor  shall  she  seek  with  silver  ray 

To  rival  the  day's  sun, 
But  in  God's  wide  design  she  may 

Her  own  true  courses  run — 
See !  through  the  night  of  life  she  moves, 
A  beacon  light  for  whom  she  loves. 

Shine  on,  thou  gentle,  soul-lit  sprite* 

Shine  on  thy  cheerful  way, 
To  lend  new  radiance  to  the  night 

To  compensate  the  day  ; 
They  sleep,  who  heed  not  souls  like  thine, 
Whose  privilege  it  is — to  shine ! 


HEARTS-EASE. 


w 


HOM  may  I  love? — shall  my  love  be 
This  lowly  flower  so  near  to  me, 


Or,  as  I  rise  in  loftier  pride, 

May  I  not  win  some  courtly  bride? 

Once  I  was  young  and  love  was  free, 
Oh,  had  this  flower  bloomed  then  for  me ! 

But  now  I'm  grown  so  high  and  tall, 
I  see  rich  fruits  hang  from  the  wall ; 

I  see  rare  flowers  in  windows  wide ; 
Ay !  but  a  world  sees  these  beside. 

For  other  stalks,  as  tall  as  I, 

May  peer  within  these  windows  high. 

Ah !  pretty  flower  close  by  my  side, 
Forgive  my  slight,  forgive  my  pride — 

That  thou  shouldst  bloom  for  me  alone ! 
Oh !  love's  conceit  is  all  its  own. 


SONG  OF  SPRING. 

I  AM  glad!  I  am  glad! 
For  my  hills  are  revealed  in  their  glory  of 

Spring, 

And  the  birds  have  come  back  from  the  valleys  to 
sing; 

I  am  glad !  I  am  glad ! 

I  am  glad  that  the  Summer  is  coming  again, 
With  its  sunshiny  days  and  its  showers  of  rain! 

I  am  glad !  I  am  glad  ! 
For  my  love  has  returned  from  the  vales  of  the 

South, 

And   she  comes   as   the   showers   in   seasons  of 
drouth ; 

I  am  glad  !  I  am  glad ! 

I  am  glad  that  the  Summer  is  coming  again, 
With  its  sunshiny  days  and  its  showers  of  rain  f 
52 


I  am  glad !  I  am  glad ! 

For  my  heart  is  as  young  as  the  fresh  budding  green, 
And  is  as  gay  as  the  birds  from  the  valleys,  I  ween  ; 

I  am  glad !  I  am  glad ! 

I  am  glad  that  the  Summer  is  coming  again, 
With  its  sunshiny  days  and  its  showers  of  rain ! 

I  am  glad!  I  am  glad! 

I  am  glad  as  the  Spring-time  is  cloudless  and  free, 
For  I  know  that  my  sweetheart  is  singing  with  me  ; 

I  am  glad!  I  am  glad! 

I  am  glad  that  the  Summer  is  coming  again, 
With  its  sunshiny  days  and  its  showers  of  rain ! 


53 


THE   SUMMER-TIME. 

OUR  Spring-time  has  flown  ;  but  young  love 
comes,  returning 

From  dalliance  long  in  that  pale  land  of  flowers 
Where  youth  lingers  fondly,  though  lovingly  yearn 
ing 

For   Summer's   bright  glory  of  sunshine  and 
showers. 

My  love   has  come  forth,   bearing  rare  orange 
garlands, 

Herself  a  fair  lily  in  delicate  pride  ; — 
My  sweet  Rose  of  Sharon,  didst  travel  in  far  lands 

To  find  thee  a  chaplet  to  deck  thee  as  bride? 

Nay!  think  not,  my  rosebud,  fair  queen  of  my 

mountains, 
There  were  no  fit  blossoms  to  grace  thy  pale 

brow; 

For,  love,  there  are  roses  and  bowers  and  fountains 
And  beautiful  music  to  welcome  thee  now. 
54 


And,  love,  thou  art  welcome,  though  wan  as  the 

blossom 
Whose  bloom  thou  hast  chosen  to  deck  thy  dark 

hair; 
Thou  dream  of  my  Spring-time,  thou  wife  of  my 

bosom, 
My  love,  thou  art  welcome  as  heaven  is  fair. 

Our  Summer  has  come,  and  our  Spring-time  is 
ended, 

A  season  of  fullness  our  love  shall  attune ; 
Thy  lily-like  pallor  of  May  shall  be  blended 

With  coralline  tints  of  a  roseate  June. 

For  heaven  is  fair,  though  the  skies  may  be  cloud 
ing, 
Sometimes,  with  cool  showers  to  temper  the 

day. 
Oh !  love,  though  the  darkness  of  days  shall  come 

crowding 
Our  life,  know  that  surely  all  storms  pass  away. 


55 


ROSE   RE-CROWNED. 

SONNET. 

AROSE,  applauded  as  the  Queen  of  Flowers 
And  well  beloved  in  her  joyous  home, 
Grew  tired  of  homage  and  the  even  hours, 
And  longed  the  mazes  of  far  realms  to  roam. 

Ah !  hapless  passion,  that  could  tempt  a  queen 
To  yield  a  kingdom  for  a  doubtful  stake ; 

Yet  not  all  kindless,  if  her  soul  serene 

Might  learn   contentment — for   her   subjects' 
sake. 

This  Rose,  this  glory  of  all  Posy  land, 

Full  soon  pined  sadly  for  her  wonted  bowers, 

And,  humbly  yielding  to  her  heart's  command, 
Returned  a  suppliant  to  the  realm  of  flowers. 

Sang  hail  the  Posies,  that  their  Queen  had  found 
The  pearl  of  patience,  and  returned  re-crowned ! 

56 


THE  GREETING. 

THE  bright,  glad  smile  which  Lilian  wore 
While  driving  forth  one  afternoon, 
Was  scarcely  caught,  we  passed  so  soon, 
Yet  to  my  sight  her  quick  glance  bore 
Sweet  meaning ;  and  the  dainty  bow, 
The  joyous  look  half-backward  sent, 
Gave  to  my  heart  more  full  content 
Than  I  could  hope  to  pidlure  now. 

For  that  sweet  smile  which  Lilian  wore 
While  driving  forth  that  afternoon, 
Though  scarcely  seen,  we  passed  so  soon, 

Unto  my  breast  this  message  bore : 

"  The  roses  and  the  song  you  sent 
Were  welcome,  and  I  greet  you  now 
With  smile  for  smile  and  bow  for  bow ; 

I  am  content !  I  am  content !  " 


57 


VIOLET. 

ACROSTIC. 


VIOLET !  ere  thy  welcome  face 
In  our  court  of  posies  came, 
Oh !  we  grew  to  love  thy  name — 
Lovelier,  now,  for  thy  sweet  grace ; 
E'en  the  gentlest  flower  thou  art 
That  e'er  won  a  courtier's  heart. 


THE   COURT   OF   POSIES. 

WHO  shall  be  King  in  Posy  Land? 
I  will  be  king,  says  the  great  Lord  of 

Smiles, 

For  I  am  the  King  of  the  Land  of  the  Isles, 
I  will  be  King  of  Posy  Land  ! 
You  shall  not  be  King  of  Posy  Land ! 
Sing  the  Posies — thus  greeting  the  great  Lord  of 

Smiles — 

Though  you  be  the  King  of  the  Land  of  the  Isles, 
The  Poet  is  King  in  Posy  Land ! 

Who  shall  be  Queen  in  Posy  Land? 
Hear  what  the  Posies  in  unison  sing : 
We  will  hold  court  that  our  courteous  King 

May  choose  him  a  Queen  of  Posy  Land! 

Then  outspake  the  King  of  Posy  Land  : 
How  can  I  choose  one  from  the  Posies  who  sing : 
We  will  hold  court  that  our  courteous  King 

May  choose  him  a  Queen  of  Posy  Land  ? 

$9 


Oh,  fie  for  the  King  of  Posy  Land ! 
Sing  the  Posies  in  concert — then  take  thee  a  bride 
From  some  other  kingdom  or  world  beside  ; 

There  must  be  a  Queen  in  Posy  Land ! 

Then  who  shall  be  Queen  of  Posy  Land  ? 
Asks  the  King  of  the  Posies,  I  pray  you  decide. 
Why,  Love  shall  be  Queen ;  for  who  else  could 
preside 

At  the  court  of  the  Posies  in  Posy  Land ! 


60 


LOVE'S   CONFESSION. 

LOVE  paid  her  tribute  to  my  heart  that  night, 
When  in  low  voice,  with  earnest  look,  she 

said : 
"  I  would  nought  else  than  thee !  " — it  was  her 

right, 
In  loving,  to  confess  her  love  bedight ; 

And  I,  who  knew  how  love  to  love  is  wed — 
How  love  illumes  responsive  love  alight — 
Had  never  word  to  answer  love,  who  plead 
For  what  she  knew  was  hers  by  right  instead. 


61 


A  VALENTINE. 

i. 

WHEN  she,  for  whom  I  write,  has  heard 
The  fairest  thought  I  may  express — 
Fond  thought,  clothed  in  the  simple  dress 
Of  one  sweet  word — 

May  peace  be  hers !     And  peace  be  thine, 
As  e'en  comes  to  some  love-lorn  bird 
With  errant  mate,  sweet  little  word, — 
Bird  valentine ! 

n. 

Go  to  her — as  the  leaflet  flies 

To  earth's  warm,  welcoming  bosom,  where 
It  finds  contented  peace,  and  there 
Forever  lies — 

Or,  as  a  feather  from  above 

Speeds  on  light  zephyrs  to  the  breast 
Of  some  fair  lake,  to  float  at  rest — 
Go !  sweet  word — Love. 


62 


LAYS. 


"  Amare  et  sapere  vix  deo  conceditur." 


IN   MEMORIAM. 

A   LTHOUGH  it  be  not  ours  to  grace 
±\.     With  rarest  flowers  this  friend  so  dear, 
Still  we  who  loved  him  fain  would  place 

Some  flowers  upon  his  honoured  bier. 

For  rarest  flowers  not  always  prove 

Immortal  wreaths  for  whom  they  bloom, 

The  bitter  tears  of  constant  love 
Fall  oftener  on  the  flowerless  tomb. 

Yet  while  the  heart  is  weighted  low 
With  grief  for  him  we  may  not  seek, 

And  while  the  voice  is  freighted  so 
With  choking  sobs,  it  cannot  speak ; 

Still  might  we  weave,  with  loving  touch, 
A  simple  crown  of  wayside  flowers — 

He  loved  familiar  forms  so  much 

He  would  not  spurn  this  wreath  of  ours. 
65 


His  life,  so  full  of  homely  tasks, 

No  sordid  pride  nor  impulse  knew ; 

His  was  the  love  which  only  asks 

True  love  again,  brave  heart,  how  true ! 

So  do  we  love  him  still  in  death — 
The  genial  soul  who  knew  no  wrong ; 

He  smiles,  as  though  with  dying  breath 
He  blessed  our  loving  flowers  of  song. 

Peace,  brother,  by  affection  blest ! 

Beside  thy  pyre  we  kneel  to  pray 
That  thou,  whose  spirit  is  at  rest, 

Wilt  lead  us  in  the  perfedl  way. 


66 


EVENING. 

I 


N  Heaven  fair  Luna,  Queen  mother  of  light, 
Sits,  robed  in  her  favourite  silver  and  white  ; 


And,  far  through  the  limitless,  bright-starred  blue, 
Her  brilliant  effulgence  expandeth  my  view. 

Oh,  infinite  space, — in  those  fathomless  skies 
What  measureless  thought  of  Eternity  lies  ! 

What  glorious  thought  of  that  wonderful  deep 
Lifts  outward  my  vision   from    Earth's   fevered 
sleep ! 

I  think  of  that  evening  thus  wondrously  bright, 
Spell-bound — as  an  endless  and  beautiful  night, 

When  Life  shall  thus  slumber,  in  calm  ne'er  to 

cease, 
And  dream  the  great  dream  of  that  Heaven  of 

peace ! 

67 


BORN   TO  THE   PURPLE. 

*  I  "*HE  heart  of  a  giant  Norway  Pine 

X      Glows  on  my  hearth  with  its  dying  flame ; 
But  who  shall  say  that  this  heart  of  mine 
Is  not  ennobled  by  its  shame  ? 

For  thus  doth  the  weakest,  homeliest  thing 
Beam  with  glories  the  blind  might  see; 

And  thus  even  I  find  voice  to  sing 
That  which  the  pine-log  sings  to  me. 

For  oh !  the  great  voice  of  my  Norway  fire 
Doth  teach  thee,  whomsoe'er  thou  art : 

Mayst  thou,  too,  chant  from  thy  gorgeous  pyre 
In  the  glowing  pride  of  as  full  a  heart ! 

Mayst  thou,  too,  merit  thy  purple  robe — 
Fit  cerement  for  thee  who,  dying,  sings  ! 

Thou  art  the  royal  spirit  of  a  globe ; 

And  in  the  pride  of  heart  all  may  be  kings ! 

68 


THE   RAIN. 

A    REQUIEM. 


DRIP!  drip!  drip! 
Dreary  rain ! 
Still  the  slow  drops  slip 

Down  the  window-pane. 

Dead!  dead!  dead! 

Even  hope ! 
O'er  a  lonely  bed 

Blooms  a  grassy  slope, 
And  the  ripe  showers  start 

From  the  floods  above; 
So  my  tearful  heart 

Weeps  its  buried  love. 

Weep !  weep !  weep ! 

Weary  tears ! 
So  wan  memories  creep 

Down  the  darkling  years. 

69 


A  WOUNDED  SPIRIT  WHO  CAN  BEAR. 

A     WOUNDED  spirit  who  can  bear— 
JL~Y.  Who  may  yet  death's  portal  dare  ? 

When  woe's  sorrows  gloom  life's  path, 

What  soul  its  requital  hath  ? 
Ah !  who  can  brave  th'  insidious  thrust 
Which  wounds  a  spirit's  holiest  trust — 

When  fondest  hope  resolves  to  air, 

A  wounded  spirit  who  can  bear  ? 

A  wounded  spirit  who  can  bear — 

Oh !  when  the  dreams  of  Earth  were  fair ; 
Oh !  when  the  tongues  of  men  were  rife 
With  praise  of  an  unbroken  life ; 

Ah,  when  then  falls  the  cruel  frost! 

When  Genius  palls — love's  labour  lost : 
Oh  God !  when  none  this  blow  may  share, 
A  wounded  spirit  who  can  bear  ? 

A  wounded  spirit  who  can  bear — 
Hurt  unto  death,  as  a  wounded  hare 
70 


It  glideth  away,  to  hide  its  shame 
Where  none  may  know  it — even  its  name. 
So  wouldst  thou  creep  to  the  welcome  fire, 
Bearing  with  thee  thy  broken  lyre. 

Dumb  is  thy  heart  in  its  chill  despair — 
Thy  wounded  spirit  no  more  may  bear ! 

A  wounded  spirit  who  can  bear — 
Lo !  but  the  promise  of  God  is  fair  : 
Come  unto  me,  thou  faithful  one, 
Whose  weary  courses  are  even  run ! 
Lo !  but  the  portal  of  death  is  grand 
With  visions  bright  of  that  heavenly  land. 
Courage!     A  haven  of  peace  is  there — 
Whose  wounded  spirit  no  more  may  bear  ! 


A   THOUGHT. 


N 


IOT  giants  all, 
Whose  blunt  nibs  scrawl 
Life's  pages,  crossed  again 
And  pointed  with  worn  pen! 


Nor  pigmies  still, 
Whose  faint  strokes  fill 
Spare  lines,  so  finely  spun 
They  scarcely  seem  begun ! 

But  hast  thou  wrought 
One  shapely  thought, 
Or  yet  one  sentient  deed — 
Sown  one  enduring  seed — 

Blest  be  thy  wit, 

Which  hallows  it ! 
Praise  God,  who  gives  it  birth — 
This  heavenward  flight  of  earth ! 

72 


GRANT. 

SONNET. 

HE  died,  as  he  lived,  in  the  daylight, 
With  the  night-tide  of  battle  behind  him, 
When  they,  the  benighted,  envenomed 
With  malice  and  hatred,  maligned  him. 

He  lives,  as  he  died,  in  the  morning, 

With  the  smile  of  the  new  day  around  him, 

When  our  hearts  and  our  homes,  reunited, 

With  a  guerdon  of  brightness  have  crowned  him. 

No  more  the  dim  forms  of  the  darkness 
In  their  subtle  relays  have  enchained  him, 

But  peace,  angel  peace,  everlasting, 
Is  his  happiest  Vidlory  gained  him. 

Bring  bays  and  bright  crowns  him  adorning ; 
He  lives,  as  he  died,  in  the  morning. 


73 


LAUS  SALUTIS. 

r  I  ^HERE  is  acalm whichhealth  alone  bestows — 

JL     A  genial  calm  which  virtue  only  knows — 
A  glorious  sense  of  freedom  in  repose. 

'Tis  not  the  noon-tide  sleep  which  triumpheth — 
The  dumb  quiescence  of  abated  breath 
Because  of  gluttony ;  for  this  is  Death. 

It  is  that  peaceful  life  the  sunlight  feels, 
While  softly  forth  its  gentle  spirit  steals 
Into  creation,  and  new  life  reveals. 

Health  is  To  Be — the  goodly  latitude 
Of  universal  love  and  gratitude — 
The  blissful  sense  of  God's  beatitude — 

The  glowing  sense  of  fitness  for  the  task 
Of  living — aye !  of  dying ;  nor  doth  ask 
Abatement,  controversy  nor  a  mask. 

Oh  God !  who  teachest  men  as  men  to  be, 
We  have  our  goodly  health  and  love  in  Thee — 
Our  joys,  delights,  in  Thy  complacency ! 
74 


A   BEAUTIFUL   MORNING. 

"Forsan  et  haec  olim  meminisse  juvabit." 

OH,  never  the  sky  so  sweetly  blue, 
Nor  ever  the  red  sun's  disc  so  bright, 
Oh,  never  the  morning  with  roseate  hue 
Enchanteth  my  spirit  with  cheerier  light ! 

Glad  life  is  glowing!  though  sin  be  sad 
When  the  beaming  sky  is  all  so  blue ; 

For  men  are  weary,  as  men  are  glad, 

When  cometh  the  morning  with  roseate  hue. 

And  the  sun  shall  beam  with  as  happy  a  face 
When  I  am  stricken  with  gloom  and  pain ; 

But  I'll  think  of  this  hour  in  its  beautiful  grace, 
And  press  back  my  sorrow  and  grief  again. 


75 


OCTOBER. 

OCTOBER  days  are  fair,  Sweetheart, 
The  rarest  of  our  year ; 
Too  soon  the  gorgeous  hours  depart — 
Fresh  tinted  by  God's  beauteous  art — 
Too  soon  they  disappear ! 

Alas !  swift  life  ;  e'en  all  too  soon 

Spring's  girlish  charms  were  flown — 
The  glorious  bloom  of  flowery  June 
'Neath  Summer's  roseate  high-noon 
Too  speedily  was  blown ! 

For  yet  not  June  with  maiden  air 

Might  reign,  love's  courtly  queen  ; 
But  thou,  October,  thy  gold  hair 
Doth  crown  thee  Woman,  passing  fair — 
Aye,  passionate,  I  ween ! 
76 


Though  day-fires  burn  thy  gold  hair  dun 
And  moon-beams  pale  thy  brow, 

Aurora,  dipping  in  the  sun, 

Yet  tips  thy  breasts  and  lips,  Fond  One, 
More  red  than  ever  now ! 

More  ripe,  more  full,  thy  pulses  flush 

With  consciousness  and  pride ; 
While  yet  mine  own  veins,  mantling,  rush 
In  answerment — 'tis  but  the  blush 
Of  modest  love,  my  bride  ! 

Of  strong  love,  earnest  love,  I  ween  ! 

More  rare  love's  radiant  charms 
Are  grown  to  fullest  joys  serene, 
When  nestles  Summer's  maiden  queen 

In  Autumn's  princely  arms. 


77 


VALE,   MEA! 


WHY  dost  thou  leave  me, 
O  why  thus  depart, 
Thou  who  art  dearer 

Than  life  to  my  heart? 
Why  dost  thou  leave  me, 

Deserted,  alone  ? 
Hist  to  the  winds,  love, 
Hear  how  they  moan ! 

Like  the  wild  winds,  love, 

Wailing  at  night, 
Groaning  and  moaning 

I  long  for  the  light — 
Light  of  my  life,  love, 

Fading  away, 
Why  dost  thou  leave  me 

To  long  for  the  day ! 

78 


REVERIE. 


reposing,  brother, 
By  the  calm  hearth's  cheery  blaze, 
Fancy  pictures  many  another 

Golden  scene  of  brighter  days  : 
Fancy  pictures  many  another 

Silvery  scene  from  memory's  page  — 
Golden  scenes  of  youth,  my  brother, 
Silvery  scenes  of  honoured  age  ! 

Mark  the  gorgeous  spirit  glowing 

In  yon  dark  and  gloomy  frame  ! 
Knowst  thou  not  that  life's  outgoing 

Fleeteth  as  this  flickering  flame  ? 
Aye,  thine  own  prevision,  roaming 

With  each  errant  gleam  of  light, 
Courteth  lovingly  the  gloaming 

And  the  mystery  of  night  ! 
79 


Oh,  while  yet  fond  fancies  nourish 

Fairest  dreams  in  length  displayed, 
Bright  life's  glowing  embers  flourish 

But  to  flicker,  faint,  and  fade — 
Leaving  many  a  scene  unpainted, 

Many  a  promise  unfulfilled, 
When  the  fertile  brain  hath  fainted 

And  the  fiery  heart  is  chilled ! 

Ay!  even  thus  life's  dream  doth  find  us— 

With  the  golden  genial  glow 
Of  youth,  but  reverie  behind  us 

And  our  fires  fast  waning  low! 
Even  thus — wan  mysteries,  shading 

Dreaming  eyes  with  shadowy  hands — 
Wandering  starlets,  dimly  fading 

Into  distant  wonder-lands ! 


80 


THE  ROMANCE   OF  A  ROSE. 

A    DRAMATIC    SKETCH. 

Opening  Scene. 

A  ROSEBUD  nods  in  a  garden ; 
A  Popinjay  chances  to  pass. 

Prologue. 

Of  whom  is  she  dreaming,  we  wonder ; 
And  what  does  he  think  of  the  lass  ? 

ACT  I. 

Ho!  ho!  little  Rosebud,  so  lonely, 
You're  almost  asleep,  I  declare  ! 

I  have  a  great  mind  to  kidnap  you, 
And  carry  you  off  to  my  lair. 

ACT  II. 

Sweet  Rosebud  wakes  up,  as  he  clasps  her, 
And  bristles  with  terrible  thorns — 
81 


(The  instinft  of  self-preservation ! 
She  looks  like  an  angel  with  horns). 

ACT  III. 

Bad  Popinjay,  nursing  his  fingers, 
Stalks  off,  scarcely  saying  Ta!  ta ! 

And  Rosebud,  when  all  is  well  over, 
Cries  :  Guess  I'll  run  home  to  mamma  ! 

Denouement. 
The  King  (-bird),  (cap-a-pie)  arming, 

Flies  straightway  his  Rosebud  to  aid ; 
Saying:  I  am  your  champion,  darling! 

Epilogue. 
This  is  how  matches  are  made. 


82 


THE   BOOK   OF  LIFE. 

IN  balmy  days  I  wander  forth 
To  some  vine-trellised  nook, 
Amid  whose  leaves  life's  wondrous  themes 
Are  writ,  in  Nature's  book. 

Ah!  why  confine  the  eager  soul 

In  narrow  bounds  of  life — 
Why  trammel  we  the  budding  growth 

Of  thought  with  pruning  knife? 

'Twas  taught  us  in  our  childish  years 

To  glean  the  page  of  lore ; 
Ah !  had  I  learned  these  lessons  less, 

My  life  were  worth  me  more. 

I  had  not  bartered  glowing  health 

For  truth  at  second  rate, 
Nor  crammed  the  years  in  jealous  haste 

To  warp  a  better  fate. 
83 


'Twere  more  to  see  the  welcome  sun 

Proclaim  the  Eastern  day, 
To  hear  the  calm,  contented  trees 

Whisper  the  hours  away ; 

'Twere  more  to  breathe  the  dewy  wind 
Which  wafts  its  perfume  by, 

To  watch  the  happy  little  birds 
As  merrily  they  fly; 

To  pluck  the  rare  and  fragrant  flower 

And  study  in  its  face 
The  animation,  perfume,  mould, 

That  fit  it  for  its  place  ; 

'Twere  more  to  be  a  man  of  God, 

In  Nature's  honest  sense, 
To  be  that  Virtue  which  declares 

Itself  life's  recompense, 

Than  teach  the  heart  to  be  too  wise ; 

More  childlike  we  would  dwell ; 
Oh !  better  choose  the  open  fields 

Of  life,  and  love  them  well. 
84 


For  oh,  this  life  is  like  a  bridge, 
From  whose  high  walls  are  seen 

The  beauteous  shores,  at  either  hand, 
The  treacherous  floods  between  ; 

And  he  who  counts  the  many  stones 
Which  form  the  bridge's  wall, 

May  never  reach  the  goodly  fields, 
Nor  pass  the  floods  at  all. 

Ah,  life !  which  fleeteth  near  and  far, 
Hear  thou  this  human  sigh : 

Oh,  child !  that  thou  wert  born  to  live 
When  thou  art  taught  to  die! 


QUEEN   LEILA. 

ONCE  when  I  was  roaming,  without  thought 
or  care, 

Far  in  sunny  Orient,  in  the  land  of  Thare, 
'Twas  I  found  Queen  Leila,  with  a  face  so  fair 
That  I  sometimes  wonder,  now,  if  she  should  dare 
Seek  me  as  she  promised, — here  or  anywhere, — 
Could  she  smile  upon  me  as  she  used  to,  there? 

In  that  golden  country,  with  its  balmy  air, 
Scent  of  orange  blossoms,  and  its  flowers  rare, 
Where  I  woo'd  my  darling  of  the  raven  hair ; 
Where  I  fled  from  fortune  when  I  left  her  there, 
In  that  distant  country — now,  I  know  not  where, 
In  the  world's  wide  garden  roams  this  maid  of 
Thare ! 

What,  though  dark  complexioned  and  with  ankles 

bare, 

Was  she  not  a  daughter  of  the  line  of  Thare, 
86 


And  a  queen  of  women  where  her  people  were ! 
Will  she  come  as  Leila,  sweetly  debonair? 
Or,  with  mien  disdainful  and  a  cruel  air, 
Will  she  come  to  mock  me,  as  a  queen  of  Thare  ? 

Will  she  come  in  raiment  that  a  queen  should 

wear, 

Or  in  meek  apparel,  as  a  maid  of  Thare? 
Will  I  meet  her  radiant,  in  the  evening's  glare — 
See  a  train  of  gallants  her  proud  favours  share  ? 
Or,  perchance,  if  fortune  hath  not  dealt  her  fair, 
Will  I  meet  her  mourning  for  her  House  of  Thare  ? 

No !  I  cannot  fancy — No  !  she  would  not  dare 
Face  me  in  my  country,  as  a  queen  of  Thare ; 
She  will  come  as  Leila,  and  she  will  forbear 
To  make  light  of  fortune  in  this  world  of  care ; 
She  will  come  as  Leila  of  the  raven  hair, 
As  I  woo'd  and  won  her  in  the  land  of  Thare. 


THE  CLOUD. 


RUDDY  day  is  dying  ; 
Breezes,  softly  sighing, 

Soothe  the  air  ; 
Golden  leaves  are  gleaming — 
Sunset  rays  are  beaming 

Everywhere  ; 

But  yon  dark  cloud,  flying 
O'er  the  fair  land  lying, 

Ah,  so  bright ! 
Darkens  soon  the  golden 
Sunset  glow  beholden, 

E'en  as  night ; 
And  chill,  sombre  sadness 
Palls  upon  the  gladness 

Of  the  hour. 

Ay  !  but  see,  descending — 
The  dry  Earth  befriending — 

A  sweet  shower. 
88 


Shall  not,  thus,  befitting 
Tears  come,  kindly  flitting 

All  lives  o'er  ? 
Drink  !  sad  heart  confiding- 
In  God's  love  abiding, 

Sigh  no  more  ! 


89 


A   SUMMER   SONG. 

WHEN  skies  are  gray  and  gardens  gay 
With  pink  or  scarlet  posies, 
Then  love 's  a  tune  of  early  June 

And  fragrant  as  the  rose  is ; 
Then  down  the  lane  goes  gentle  Jane, 

A  blushing  maid  and  charming, 

With  flying  feet  her  love  to  greet, 

The  neighbours  quite  alarming. 

When  fields  are  green,  'tis  then,  I  ween, 

That  man  and  maid  are  dreaming  ; 
Fond  love,  for  thee  the  summer  sea 

With  opal  hues  is  beaming. 
The  sky  and  sea,  sweet  love,  for  thee 

ReflecT:  their  opalescence 
In  Janette's  eyes,  with  glad  surprise 

At  love's  awakening  presence. 
90 


Then  skies  are  blue  and  love  is  true 

And  Jack's  true  heart  is  beating  ; 
Sweet  words  and  low,  with  eyes  aglow, 

Fond  Janette's  love  entreating. 
Then  summer's  song  sing  blithe  and  long, 

Love's  own  mad  music  ringing  ; 
Glad  life  's  a  song  when  love  is  strong 

And  heart  to  heart  is  clinging. 


BOHEMIA. 


TO  Tragedy  her  coronet ! 
To  Comedy  her  flowers ! 
Nor  envy  either  we,  fair  friend, 

No  envious  mood  is  ours ; 
For  the  tragic  crown  is  weary, 

And  the  flowers  forget  their  glee — 
So  trip  we  on  our  even  way, 
Bohemia's  children  we ! 

Bohemia's  children  we,  and  love 

Her  free  range,  fondly  glad  ; 
She  laughs  when  life  is  merry, 

And  she  sighs  when  love  is  sad — 
So  well  she  loves  her  mood  of  song, 

Be  fortune  dark  or  fair, 
No  hollow  sound  of  mockery 

In  her  free  voice  is  there ! 
92 


Nor  Tragedy,  nor  Comedy, 

But  goodly  Life  sing  we : 
Be  ours  a  modest  love — be  ours 

Love's  round  of  Melody ! 
No  crowns  bear  heavy  on  our  heads, 

No  dead  flowers  mock  our  mirth, 
But  blithely  trip  we  on  our  way — 

Bohemians  of  Earth ! 


SINE   QUA   NON. 
(AFTER  OWEN  MEREDITH.) 

YOU  may  live  without  poetry,  music,  and  art ; 
You  may  live  without  conscience,  and  live 

without  heart ; 
You  may  live  without  love ;  you  may  live  without 

books ; 

And  may  bask  in  the  balm  of  a  thousand  of  cooks  ! 
But  what  is  a  cook — who  can  give  you  a  bite, 
Yet  can't  give  you  tonic  to  tempt  appetite  ? 
I'd  rather  hang,  hungry,  on  Lilian's  smiles, 
Than  feast  with  the  gods  in  the  Fortunate  Isles ! 


UTOPIA. 

SONNET. 

T  T  NDER  the  sky,  one  bright,  mid-summer  noon, 
V_J       Almost    asleep,    enough    for    day-dreams 

weaving 

And  seemingly  a  very  dream  achieving, — 
For  this  was  in  that  dreamful  month  of  June 
That  I  lay  mooning  when  there  was  no  moon, — 
I  dreamed,  day-dreams  are  dreadfully  deceiving, 
A  little  cloud,  the  sea  of  heaven  cleaving, 
My  kingdom  was  where  it  was  always  noon. 

But  oh  !  while  sped  my  fanciful  designing, 

My  cloudlet  grew  so  grand  with  glowing  bubbles, 
My  widening  kingdom  caused  me  much  com 
plaining  ; 
Yet  every  cloud  has  still  a  silver  lining ; 

And  I  dreamed  on,  until,  'mid  endless  troubles, 
I  woke  unto  the  faft  that  it  was  raining. 
95 


REPOSE. 

THE  shadows  of  darkness  surround  me 
While  I  dream  of  the  beautiful  day  ; 
And  the  mornings  a  sluggard  have  found  me, 

As  sleeping  and  dreaming  I  lay ; 

And  I  sigh  at  each  thought  of  awaking 

The  slumber  my  being  is  taking. 

Yet  I  joy  that  a  little  while  longer 

My  spirit  may  blissfully  sleep — 
May  rest,  and  in  resting  grow  stronger, 

A  fruitful  outstarting  to  reap. 
So  I  dream  while  my  young  years  are  numbered ; 

May  I  joy  that  I  rested  and  slumbered  ! 


96 


DESIRE. 

T  TNSPEAKABLE     longing     pervadeth     my 
^J  breast, 

As  I  wake  from  my  slumber  and  rest ; 
Ineffable  yearning,  hope  still  undefined, 

Enchanteth  my  wondering  mind  ; 
And  desire  searcheth  wildly — a  sateless  behest, 

The  pursuit  of  a  phantom  with  feverish  zest. 

Ah,  well  I  and  I  think  'tis  unnatural  so 

To  determine  existence  ;  but  lo  ! 
Do  I  turn  to  the  phantom  my  brother  pursues, 

It  seems  only  more  vague  and  diffuse. 
Oh  friend,  dost  thou  fashion  thee  ghosts  in  the 

sun — 

In  the  dark  of  death's  dungeon,  say,  will  there 
be  none  ? 


97 


ACCOMPLISHMENT. 

I  AWOKE  from  the  dreaming,  the  slumber  of 
youth, 

I  awoke  to  the  day's  vivid  truth. 
I  awoke  to  discover  that  youth  was  a  dream  ; 
Ay !  and  manhood — my  manhood  did  seem 
Yet  of  unstable  purpose,  unfruitful  desire, 

And  my  day-dreams  sped  formless  as  vapours  of 
fire. 

I  awoke !  I  awoke  !    For  my  manhood  doth  seem 

No  longer  the  ghost  of  a  dream — 
So  fiercely  I  followed  each  shade  to  its  dell, 

And  fastened  each  truth  in  its  well. 
Oh  friend,  who  would'st  capture  thy  phantom  of 
fate, 

Push  onward,  and  boldly — 'tis  never  too  late ! 


98 


TWILIGHT. 

THE  kindly  sun  beams  through  the  mist 
With  features  bright, 
As  gallantly  he  stoops  to  kiss 

The  world  good-night ; 
And  leaves  me  in  the  twilight  gray, 

In  errant  mood — 
A  weary  pilgrim,  seeking  calm 

In  solitude  ! 
My  heart,  so  tired  within  me,  seemed 

To  plead  for  this — 
To  glide  among  my  favoured  haunts 

And  know  the  bliss 
Of  indolence,  as  in  my  boat 

I  drift  and  think  : 
How  merciful,  that  wavering  souls 

Upon  the  brink 
Of  sorrow,  may  thus  turn  to  Thee, 

O  God  ! — heart-calm 
To  seek,  reposing  at  Thy  shrines ! 

Not  church  with  psalm, 

99 


But  at  Thy  seftless  altars,  spread 

All  o'er  the  earth, 
Where  all  may  kneel  to  bless  Thee  that 

Thou  gav'st  them  birth! 
May  bless  Thee,  that  'mid  anxious  doubts 

And  woes  they  feel, 
This  thing  they  know,  that  unto  each 

Thou  dost  reveal 
Thy  love  in  earth's  minutest  charms ! 

So,  floating  on, 
Past  stately  pines  and  cedars  tall, 

I  see  anon 
Some  weary  willow  bending  down 

To  cheer  some  chill 
And  nestling  shrub,  for  they  are  friends 

In  sadness  still ! — 
Green  ivies,  arm  in  loving  arm, 

Strong  trees  entwine ! 
Sweet  violets,  in  courtship  with 

Each  languid  vine, 
Upon  their  soft  and  mossy  bed 

Of  love  recline! 
All  nature  hath  her  friendships  still — 

As  I  have  mine : 
100 


For  newly  beautiful  life  seems 

Now  to  my  soul, 
Like  these  scenes  mirrored  in  the  lake- 

A  perfeft  whole ! 


101 


ADIEU,   CHARMANT   PAYS. 

IF  one  should  say,  on  glancing  through 
These  records  few : 

"  How  small  a  land  it  is  !  " — though  true, 
I  cannot  think  if  I  might  brook 

That  such  should  look 
Again  on  thee,  land  of  my  book. 

For  they,  whose  friendliness  inclines — 

As  one  defines — 

To  read  as  well  between  the  lines, 
May  understand  how  I  might  be, 

On  leaving  thee, 
Content,  without  apology. 

Yet  still,  before  I  leave  thee  go, 

Perchance  I  owe 

Self-censure,  that  the  world  may  know 
'Tis  not  thy  fault,  song  of  my  heart, 

As  now  we  part, 
That  thou  so  tiny,  darling,  art. 

102 


I  could  not  breathe  those  thoughts  of  thine, 

O  heart  of  mine  ! 

That  thou  hast  laid  at  thy  love's  shrine, 
In  fond  humility  to  please  ; 

These,  only  these, 
I  sing — love's  worldlier  harmonies ! 


103 


CMS  WICK    PRESS  t CHARLES  WHITTINGHAM    AND    CO. 

TOOKS   COURT,   CHANCERY    LANE,    LONDON. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


w 


MAY  1  0  1965 


AP 


IffMPElYE 


A  M. 


K 


P.M. 

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Form  L9-32m-8,'58(5876s4)444 


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